Deviance. London Psychic Book 3 (7 page)

His idea of a future London centered around the temple of Salt Lake City, a beacon of shining white against a backdrop of blue. Not because of faith, but because of those who looked to it as the pinnacle of good behavior and of perfect obedience.
 

Whereas London … Dale shook his head as he stirred his tea. Well, London had been a melting pot of multiculturalism, artistic expression and personal freedom for far too long. The Society sought to redress the balance and take back the city for morality – pushing a right-wing agenda that would move the poor on benefits out of the city, clean up the streets of hookers and drug pushers, scrub the stain of graffiti from the walls of Shoreditch and Hoxton and renew a sense of pride in the city.

One of the younger men from the back approached and Dale waved him forward. The man sat opposite him and leaned closer. His jaw was much larger on the left than on the right, an asymmetry that Dale tried not to stare at. The man smelled of tobacco smoke and fried bacon. The thought of a breakfast fry-up made Dale's stomach rumble.
 

"There's some of us that want to help with your campaign," the man said. "We work out at the boxing gyms in South London and there's a lot of support for what you want to do. If you need us, give me a call. Here's my card."
 

The man handed over a business card with frayed edges and a blue boxing glove in the middle. Dale took it, noting the scars on the man's knuckles.
 

"Thank you, I appreciate the offer. There will definitely be leafleting to be done over the coming weeks." Dale met the man's steel gaze and saw that they understood each other. "I'll have my office call you."

They shook hands and the man walked off without looking back.

A well-preserved middle-aged woman sat down next, her designer outfit coordinated in shades of camel and ivory. She placed her knees together, her slim legs and high-heeled shoes tucked under the chair. She placed her hands in her lap, manicured nails with a hint of natural color. A large diamond sparkled on her left hand alongside a gold wedding band. Dale noticed how soft her hands looked and he wondered briefly how they would feel on his skin.

"Detective Superintendent –" she began, her eyes darting to his.
 

"Dale, please," he said, putting a hand briefly on her knee. She colored a little and raised a hand to her neck, touching the pulse point there.
 

"Oh. Dale, then." She smiled and he saw opportunity in her gaze. Flirting was always a good way to get another vote.

"I'm part of a group within the church," she said. "We're trying to encourage the sex workers into an abstinence program. We've had some success, but we'd like to get official backing from the Mayor's office. Perhaps even some funding?"

Dale smiled, pouring sincerity into his gaze.
 

"Of course, that's the kind of program I'd like to encourage. Once I'm elected, I'd appreciate it if you could submit your proposal to my office. I will personally make sure it gets the proper attention."

"Thank you," the woman said, her smile wider now. "Our aim is to honor what the original Society intended."

Dale knew that the Society had been formed by William Wilberforce in order to stem the immorality so rife in the Georgian period, when prostitution added almost as much to the economy as the thriving London Docks. It aimed to ban public drinking, swearing, lewdness and other immoral and dissolute practices, as well as ending the obscenity of pornography and disorderly pubs and brothels. It was a good model for the modern Society. But in Dale's opinion, they had made one mistake that still rippled through the strata of Britain. By banning what they called 'obscene publications,' they had also stopped the distribution of contraceptive advice to the working classes, giving rise to more births amongst the poor.
 

One of Dale's intentions was to introduce a substantial one-off payment to any woman who underwent sterilization, which would encourage those worse off in society to stop breeding.
About bloody time the class balance was redressed
, he thought. Once the dregs of society were dealt with, then he would start trying to get the right sort of people to have more babies. They would need a working group on how to influence more intelligent women to stop pursuing aggressive careers. It was an unfortunate correlation that the more educated a woman was, the fewer children she had.

"May I have your autograph?" the woman asked, pulling a pad from her handbag. "Once you're Mayor, you'll be far too busy."

She bent forward and Dale caught a trail of her scent in the air. Ponds Cold Cream. His breath caught in his chest and he was back in that room with his mother. As she stroked the cream into his skin, the door had slammed open. His father stood in the doorway, still wearing his police uniform, his face red from drinking after his shift.
You little faggot.
His father's voice had been a growl, an animal sound as he stepped towards them with fists clenched.
 

He always rolled up his sleeves before he began, revealing the tattoos on his forearms. One arm displayed Justice as a beautiful woman holding a sword in one hand, her weighing scales in the other, blood dripping beneath from her blindfold. The other arm was inked with the words his father lived by:
When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers. Psalm 21:15
. Dale understood his father's right to discipline his family – it was how he felt about London now. After all, spare the rod, spoil the child.

"Are you OK?" the woman asked, her eyes concerned.

"Of course." Dale smiled and refocused on her. "Sorry, it's been a long day already." He pulled a fountain pen with a silver fox-head cap from his inside top pocket. He signed his name with a flourish, realizing that this was likely just the start of such events. Perhaps he would even take a book deal once he was Mayor.

The woman walked off the stage, her hips swaying a little more than was necessary. Dale felt a familiar stirring. He took another sip of his tea and waved for the next person to come forward. He would stay here until he had given them all a moment of his time, but later tonight he would indulge his own particular brand of release.

Jamie sat at her tiny desk, scanning through the financial records of a husband whose disgruntled wife was sure he was having an affair. Her new office was the size of a large cupboard, rented in a shared office space on the edge of Southwark. She had tried working in her new flat, but surprisingly, she missed having colleagues around. She had never been the chatty type, preferring to keep quiet and rarely drinking with the other police, but there was an energy in having other people around.
 

The shared office space was a way to get some normality back into her life, the routine of getting out of the flat, looking presentable enough for others not to notice her. The office space was generally quiet, with the tapping of keyboards and low voices making phone calls. She nodded to the other people she saw in the lobby and little kitchen, but she could see reservation in their eyes. She wondered how fast the turnover was round here. Perhaps when she had been here for a while, they would accept her as part of the community – and she did intend to be here a while.
 

Jamie returned her attention to the records in front of her. From what she could see, the man was having much more than an affair. She'd tracked him to another house and it looked like he had another family altogether. Jamie shook her head. She had barely managed a relationship with one person. Two marriages would be a hell of a lot of work.

She added the last pieces of information to the file, attaching photos of the man's second family. The woman had essentially paid to destroy her marriage, to break apart the status quo. Part of Jamie didn't want to send the information to her client, but perhaps the woman knew already and could use this to move on. Or perhaps she would find strength in her children. A sudden rush of loneliness took Jamie by surprise. She missed Polly every day, but the grief had subsided to a dull ache most days. It was a back note to her life, but this spike was something new. She completed the file, resolving to avoid marital cases if she could. She preferred missing persons – at least they had some chance of a happy ending.
 

Her mobile phone buzzed and she saw Magda's name on the screen. She picked it up.

"Hi, Magda."

"Jamie." Her voice was broken with concern. "You have to help. You need to come quickly."

"Of course. What's wrong?"
 

"O's missing. I went over to her flat to show her the photos from yesterday. She didn't answer the door or her phone, so I let myself in with the spare key. Her bed hadn't been slept in. I don't think she's been back here since we were with her yesterday."

Jamie thought of O's dancing at Torture Garden, and her admission of occasional sex work. O was a beautiful woman and there were plenty of possibilities for where she could be.
 

"Perhaps she was working?" Jamie said.

"No." Magda was emphatic. "We have a check-in system for when she works. If it's sex work or dancing or anything potentially risky, she texts me. Even when it's something fun and casual, she always lets me know. She wouldn't miss that, Jamie. She knows the lifestyle risks and that's how we manage it." Magda's voice was high-pitched with desperation. "She's been taken, I know it."

"Did you report it to the police?" Jamie asked.

"Yes," Magda said, "but I know they're not taking it seriously."

"It's not really been long enough yet for them to consider it a missing person, but I know some people," Jamie said. "What's the address? I'll be there as fast as possible."

After getting the information, Jamie jumped on her motorbike, weaving through the streets until she reached a Victorian terrace behind a park. Magda stood outside smoking, her fingers shaking as she sucked on the cigarette. Her face was pinched with worry. Bare of makeup, she looked much older.
 

As Jamie put her helmet in the pannier, Magda wiped a tear from her cheek.
 

"I keep thinking of Nick's body," she said. "Whoever it was cut his tattoos off. Maybe Milo too. What if they have O?"

Jamie thought of how much of O's perfect body was inked, trying not to imagine her skin covered in blood.
 

"We'll find her," Jamie said. "Show me the flat and then I can call someone. I still have friends in the police."

Jamie followed Magda up the stairs of the terrace into a second-floor flat. The door opened into a large living and dining space, with one side separated into a tiny kitchen. There was a separate small bedroom and postage-stamp-size bathroom. Framed prints decorated the cream walls, all of sea creatures and dominated by octopi. There were several erotic Japanese prints, clear evidence of the inspiration for the intimacy of her tattoo.

The flat was minimalist, in keeping with O's Japanese interest. A futon with white linen and a red pillow dominated the bedroom. It felt empty, and Jamie was sure that Magda was right. O had not slept here last night.
 

"Do you know where she was going after her shift at the Kitchen?" Jamie asked. "When I left, she was still there."

Magda shook her head. "She mentioned meeting someone to discuss a potential modeling contract, but it was in a coffee shop somewhere, nothing seedy. Her ink sets her apart and she has photographers flocking to take her picture these days."

Jamie went to the window, looking out at the back of other houses in the area. She called Missinghall.
 

"Al, it's Jamie. Have you got a minute?"
 

"This murder case is crazy but of course, I'll help if I can."

"It's about a MISPER, a friend of mine. Olivia Ivorson."

There were sounds of typing as Missinghall searched for any notifications.
 

"Another one in Southwark." His voice was grim. "It's not a great place to be at the moment, Jamie. When did she go missing?"

"Sometime last night. After ten p.m."

More sounds of typing.

"She's a sex worker by the look of it. She's been cautioned before. Maybe she's out working?"

"I know she isn't, Al. And I'm concerned because she's heavily tattooed."
 

"It's not unusual these days, Jamie. You know that. Most of bloody London has ink now."

Jamie saw O's perfect body in her mind, the alabaster skin claimed by the octopus that encircled her. Jamie shuddered at the thought of a blade drawn over that flesh.
 

"You said yourself that Southwark isn't a great place to be right now."

Missinghall sighed. "Look, everyone is focused on the Winchester Palace murder right now, but I'll see what I can do."

"OK, thanks, Al. I'll keep looking this end and I'll text you with any updates."

Jamie ended the call and turned to Magda. "I don't think we're going to get any help from the police at the moment. She's got form."

Magda put her head in her hands, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
 

"There might be another way," Jamie said. "I have a friend who might be able to help. Do you mind if I call him?"

Magda looked up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Please, anything you think. Maybe he can come over?"

Jamie scrolled through her contacts for Blake's number. Her heart raced a little at the thought of his voice and of seeing him again. They had both been through a lot since the events surrounding the murder of psychiatrist Dr Christian Monro. Jamie had seen Blake at his weakest then, and she knew he still struggled to put the mental torture of what he had seen during that case behind him.
 

Her own decision to leave the police and start a new life meant she had been busy, and they had both kept away from each other. But Jamie knew it was more to do with an instinctive desire not to be hurt. They were both vulnerable, and there was a spark between them that could devastate them both if they gave into it. She remembered the night she had gone to Blake's flat – the night Polly's body had disappeared. He had been high on tequila and she had wanted to lie down next to him, let him sink into her. But he was dangerous. His gift both frightened and intrigued her, but perhaps now it could help her new friends.